The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  There was a dilapidated hut. They ran the boat up next to it. Castricius, Tarchon, Rikiar and the Wada brothers swarmed ashore. The rowers and steersman reversed positions. Ballista and Diocles jumped out, ready to push off. They waited, tense, as the landing party searched the hut and its surroundings. Maximus kept a blade to the throat of the Rugian.

  Satisfied there was no one in the vicinity, Castricius waved them ashore. There was no need to tell anyone to be silent, not even Zeno, Amantius or their slaves.

  Ballista sent Tarchon and Rikiar struggling back through the mud and undergrowth to keep watch where the channel divided, and posted Wada the Tall and two of the Romans as sentries away from the water. When they were in position, Ballista got out of his war gear and soaking clothes. Maximus and Wada the Short did the same. Naked, they towelled themselves down and put on dry things from their chests. Nothing else was unloaded from the boat.

  The sun arced up across the sky. The duck returned. There were moorhens on the pool as well.

  Ballista went and spoke to the Rugian. ‘Your king betrayed us to them?’

  ‘Perhaps. I do not know. There are several passages to the gulf. He told me to use that one, take my time getting there.’ He stopped abruptly, as if reluctant to say more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you spare me?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘The news of your coming ran long before you. There was another Angle here. He left just two days before you arrived.’

  ‘One of my brothers?’

  ‘No. A tall, thin warrior. He wore a hood. I did not talk to him. He did not dine in the hall. He spoke with the king alone. Then he left in a small boat. But there was a longship out in the roads.’

  Ballista mulled this over, but could make little of it.

  ‘Will you let me go?’

  ‘This is what will happen. We will lay up here until dark. Tonight you will take us out by unfrequented ways. There are many channels out of the delta. The Brondings cannot be watching them all. If we get clear, I will put you ashore somewhere to the west.’

  ‘If not?’

  ‘Use the daylight to plot our course.’

  ‘If we run into them?’

  ‘You will die.’

  XIX

  The Vistula Delta

  Snakes were everywhere on this river, big fuckers, absolutely fucking everywhere. Maximus knew he should get some rest. There would be none to be had tonight. But in this dismal marsh it was hard to find a place where a snake could not get at you. Most of the crew had stretched out on the bank near the hut, dozing in the sun. That was just asking for trouble. The snakes could swim, and the boat had a low freeboard, so that was no good either. The idea of a pointed black head, forked tongue flicking, eyes full of malice, sliding over the gunnels, thick, grey body coiling after, slithering up while you slept, all defenceless, was too horrible to contemplate. Fuck, he hated snakes.

  Maximus could not settle. He went and sat with Ballista. One of the half-witted Harii, the taller one, was droning on about one of his relatives who was a shape-changer. When the fellow went to sleep his spirit roamed the woods in the form of a bear. Absolute fucking nonsense. Perhaps the Greeks and Romans, like that little shite Zeno over there, were right and northern barbarians were stupid beyond belief. Of course, the southerners did not know much about Hibernians. Not many of them came to the island, and quite a few that did had not been alive to leave.

  Some cannabis would have been good. But with the gods knew how many longboats full of Brondings combing the delta there could be no lighting a fire. Cold food and no cannabis: it was going to be a long day. It seemed an eternity since he had had a woman. Now the other of the Harii, the short-arsed one, was talking about another relative. Apparently this one wore women’s clothing to help him communicate with whatever benighted gods haunted the forest. It appeared that holding a horse’s severed cock helped the process. Maximus had had enough of this.

  Saying he would stand watch, Maximus left. Having collected some things from his pack on the boat, he made his way to where the creek divided. It was hard going, mud sucking at his boots. He used his sword to probe the reeds for snakes. You could never be too careful.

  Rikiar thanked him, and went back. At least the Vandal did not yap like an old woman; not like those Harii. Actually, he was too quiet. He needed watching. If he stole anything from Maximus, it would be more than a few mutton bones around his ears the fucker would be getting.

  Maximus hunkered down with Tarchon to watch. The Suanian took his duties seriously and was quiet. The water was still, black in the sun. The reeds meant you could not see far. It was more a matter of listening.

  From nowhere came a feeling of loneliness. Maximus missed Calgacus. Odd, he never had when the miserable, ugly bastard was alive. The old Caledonian might have moaned the whole fucking time, but you could trust him. Not like a light-fingered Vandal or a couple of superstitious Harii. It had been better when the familia was just the three of them: Maximus, Calgacus and Ballista.

  Chewing some air-dried beef, Maximus fished out the one book he owned, Petronius’s novel, The Satyricon. He unrolled the bulky papyrus at random. It was the dinner of Trimalchio, the part where the host tells the story of the midnight hags stealing the body of a baby. It reminded Maximus of something. He scrolled back. Yes, there it was: the story of the soldier who was a werewolf. Gods below, the Romans were no better than a bunch of Harii barbarians from a forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. At times Maximus wished he had never had to leave his own people.

  In the mid-afternoon, Maximus and Tarchon were relieved. Back at the boat there was much to be done. Ballista had ordered the oars muffled and the rowlocks greased. The men had to stow all the metal ornaments from their gear and wrap rags around the fittings of their scabbards and bowcases. They were to wear dark cloaks, hoods pulled up over their helmets and blacken their faces and hands. The order was inclusive. Maximus enjoyed watching Zeno and the eunuch Amantius having river mud rubbed into their delicate skins by their slaves.

  The sun was low when they set out. The boat glided from shadow to shadow through bands of golden light, hazed with insects. The water was thick with blown leaves, solid like amber. Beyond the screen of willows, they turned south.

  Maximus crouched by the pilot. He kept the short sword below the side of the boat, but let the man see it. Ballista was on the other side of the Rugian, the latter once again tethered to the prow.

  The sun went down, and they threaded their way in near-darkness. The smells of rotting vegetation and wet mud lay over the tallow and pitch rising from the boat. It was deathly quiet, every slight noise amplified: the run of water down the sides, the soft splash of the oars, the scuttle and plop of night creatures taking to the river, and the hiss of the breeze shifting the reeds. At the pilot’s whisper, they turned now left, now right. Lost, unsure of their heading, Maximus was far from trusting the Rugian. He felt the smooth leather of the hilt, reassuring in his hand.

  A light showed through the trees ahead. A yellow-orange fire flickering just above the water level some way off. Maximus readied himself to kill the Rugian without sound. No one else seemed concerned. He looked again. It was the moon, enormous, just past full. Moving branches made its light into dancing flames.

  Time lost all meaning. The carved head on the prow led them onward, like a stern deity guiding them to some unalterable fate.

  The moon had risen free of the trees. Its light made the shadows along the banks impenetrably black. But when they emerged they could not have been more exposed.

  Maximus smelt the open sea long before the guide murmured for utter silence. One more turn and they would be at the mouth of the channel.

  Keeping to the shallows, tight against the shore, the boat nosed around the bend. A soft indrawn breath from those at the prow. Ballista gestured back down the boat. The noise of the oars in the water was fearfully loud as they stopped the boat.

  Not a
hundred paces ahead were two moored longboats.

  Maximus covered the pilot’s mouth with his left hand; with his right he brought the blade to the man’s throat.

  The warships had their awnings rigged to shelter their crews as they rested for the night. No sound came across the water. But low on the mast of each a lantern burned. In the bright moonlight there could be no sneaking past if so much as a single one of the Brondings was alert.

  The boat drifted slightly. Maximus felt the pilot’s breath hot and damp in his palm. His own breathing rasped in his throat. They were near the edge of the moonlight. Ballista had to make the decision now.

  As Maximus watched, one of the lanterns blinked as a figure crossed in front of it. Ballista had seen it as well. Quiet as a wraith, the big northerner moved back through the boat, motioning to the men on the benches.

  Every creak sounded like thunder as the rowers, with all the care in the world, pushed against their oars. Maximus’s eyes never left the darkness on the longship where the moving shadow had vanished. The man had to hear their blades leave the water, slide in again.

  Slowly, slowly, the boat inched sternwards. No alarm rang out. As they gathered a little momentum, the noise increased. The best oarsmen in the world could not back a boat without making a sound. Still no alarm. The deck heeled a little as the steersman brought them around.

  A bank of reeds slid across the view of the warships like a curtain. An all too audible sigh of relief, hurriedly shushed.

  There would be thumps and bangs if the crew reversed their positions. Instead the starboard oarsmen braced their blades in the water, while the larboard ones rowed circumspectly. With the steering oar hard over, the boat came about in a little over its own length. They stole away south again like thieves in the night.

  In the contingent safety of the delta, they pulled into a side-water and brought the vessel to a halt. They did not anchor or go to the bank. They rested on their oars. The water lapped at the sides.

  Ballista did not threaten or bluster. He spoke to the pilot as if they were old comrades-in-arms, this just the latest of many desperate ventures they had shared. Was there another obscure channel to the gulf, one the Brondings might have overlooked, one which they could reach before daybreak? The Rugian pondered the proposition. To give the man his due, he was calm, took his time, gave it his full consideration. Yes, there was one further west, but coming to it involved several detours. They would be lucky to be there before dawn. It was both shallow and narrow, thus little frequented except by a few marsh-dwelling fishermen. At this time of year there should be just enough clearance for the boat. But there could be no guarantee the Brondings did not know of its existence. If they were aware of it, everything would depend on their numbers — if they had sufficient ships to blockade it as well as the more obvious places.

  Decisions are easy, Maximus thought, when there are no real alternatives.

  Like neophytes of some gloomy and clandestine sect, they followed the wooden idol carved on the prow through the marsh again. They moved through an unchanging landscape. The water was glossy and black. The drops from the oars shone like jewels in the moonlight. On either side, reedbeds slid past, the stalks bone-white, the feathery heads black and clear as if etched in metal. Down at water level, the wind had dropped. Up above, clouds chased across the haloed moon.

  Again, time had loosed its moorings, drifted away into something immeasurable. The rhythmic creak and splash of the oars, the water slopping down the sides of the boat, lulled Maximus into an altered state. It was like the calm that came over him in battle, but less urgent and more reflective.

  If they were alive and not captured, this time tomorrow, Ballista would be well on his way home. The Harii Wada brothers were drawing him back into that world. But Maximus was concerned it would not go well for his friend. All those years in the imperium had changed Maximus. They would have changed Ballista, too. And, leaving aside the nonsense about amber, there was the mission. The Angles were now allied to Postumus. Ballista was tasked with turning them against him, bringing them back into friendship with and obedience to Gallienus. Given the hostages held in Gaul, Ballista’s father and remaining half-brothers were unlikely to welcome that idea. Ballista had said nothing on the subject — the time in the imperium had taught him discretion — but Maximus had little doubt that if the king of the Angles refused to alter his allegiance, the imperial mandata ordered Ballista to replace him with someone more amenable. In Sicily, Ballista’s wife and sons were in the power of Gallienus. There could be no question of Ballista ignoring the mandata. If it came to overthrowing his father, there would be blood. A terrible burden came with patricide.

  The mist rose just before dawn. At first, thin tendrils coiled up, then banks lay across their path. As the sky lightened, they voyaged through an opaque cloud. Beads of moisture stood on the men’s hair and clothes. The pine of the prow was damp to the touch. The trees floated above, unconnected to the earth.

  ‘We are there,’ the pilot whispered.

  The boat shifted as it quickened to the patterns of the wider waters.

  The familiar presence of the enclosing treetops faded astern. They rowed in silence through the clinging whiteness. Everyone was taut, straining their senses against the enveloping fog.

  A skein of geese flew overhead, wings whirring, calling their eerie calls. After their raucous passage, the oars were loud in the surrounding quiet.

  Off the starboard bow, above the mist was a tree that was not a tree. Tall, straight, with a crossbeam, shrouds hanging down. With no order, Wada the Short at the steering oar swung them to the left away from the mast.

  With infinite caution, they rowed on.

  Another mast, dead ahead, no more than fifty paces. They curved back to the right.

  If the gods were kind and the mist held, they might yet pass undetected between the ships.

  Maximus could hear nothing but the gentle slop of the oars and the harshness of his own breathing. They crept forward. Slowly, slowly, the masts fell behind.

  The wind came out of the north. It snatched the fog away. They were alone on a sparkling sea. The great wall of fog was retreating towards the land.

  ‘Pull!’ hissed Ballista. ‘Full pressure.’

  Suddenly, as if formed from the fog itself, the two longships appeared astern, their carved, painted figureheads turning towards the fleeing vessel as the wind swung them on their sea anchors.

  The deck lifted under Maximus’s feet as the boat surged forward. Foam creamed up from under the bow.

  The Bronding warships had striped awnings, red and blue, bright in the sun, furled sails in the same colours aloft. Two men stood on the prow of the nearer one, no more than a hundred and fifty paces away. But their backs were turned. They were watching the fog bank recede towards the land. It would be a fine thing, Maximus thought, if they escaped unseen after all.

  A hoarse shout. A man on the further ship had half climbed the prow. He was pointing, hallooing. The sentinels on the nearer one spun around. They stood as if unable to comprehend the apparition of the ship to seaward. Then pandemonium broke out. Men swarmed over the Bronding decks. Horns rang. The awnings began to be hauled down. It would take them a time to get ready, win their anchors, but Maximus knew their lead would be slight.

  Ballista was calling orders. The Warig was a ship with twenty benches. The thirty-two remaining Roman and Olbian crew had filled only sixteen of them. Now Ballista sent the Vandal Rikiar, Wada the Tall, Tarchon and the five slaves to take the empty places. As they unshipped their oars — some of the slaves with no great dexterity — Maximus joined Diocles in doubling up on the two bow oars.

  Beyond the rising and falling stern, Maximus could see the Brondings. While the further one had yet to move, the nearer had already run out its oars and was getting under way. The improvident bastards must have slipped their anchor. It was a big vessel, probably thirty or more benches. If they had additional warriors aboard, they could put two men on
some of their oars. Most of the Brondings would have slept. The crew of the Warig had been rowing all night; not hard, but they would soon tire. Pulling into the wind, the chase could not last long.

  Over his shoulder Maximus could hear both Zeno and Amantius muttering prayers where they huddled among the stores in the bow: ‘Athena … Achilles … Zeus … Poseidon.’ Hieroson, the injured Olbian guide, who had been with them, hobbled past, and settled to give what help he could to another oar. Maximus had been right to judge that he was a man of some account, unlike the Greek and the eunuch.

  At the prow, Ballista and Castricius were talking to the Rugian. The urgent invocations and promises in Greek prevented Maximus hearing what was being said. ‘Grey-eyed Athena, hold your hands over me. Swift-footed Achilles, turn your anger aside. To Zeus, an ox for my safety.’ Sure, all gods liked to be offered things, but Maximus thought they were more likely to aid those who helped themselves. And it would be good if Zeno and Amantius sought divine intervention on more than just their own behalf. Actually, a local deity or two might be more use. It could be the Greek gods did not spend much time up here in Hyperborea. From what he understood, they spent most of their time drinking, fucking and squabbling among themselves anyway; all that, and abducting pretty boys and girls. A feckless crew from which to seek salvation.

  The man next to Maximus on the larboard bow oar was the Egyptian Heliodorus, the mutineer Ballista had nearly killed. Once Maximus had got into time, he looked down the boat, out past Wada the Short on at the helm. The big Bronding longship was not much more than a long bowshot away, maybe three hundred paces. It was coming on in unpleasantly fine style, its banks of oars rising and falling all together, like the wings of a grey goose.